On The Gold Coast: First Christmas
Judith Wallis's nostalgic column is steeped in the sweet sadness that many folk feel at Christmastide. But Judith is not downbeat. She has a suggestion that could make this Christmas a whole lot better for you, and for everyone you meet this week.
Today I pulled the box of Christmas decorations from its hiding place in the garage and as I unpacked the items, spreading them out on the kitchen table, I felt I was greeting old friends.
I selected a small star, balding now, its glitter almost gone. My grandson was a toddler when I lifted him up to hang this star on a Christmas tree. This year he celebrated his twentieth birthday. I wonder if he remembers making the star at play school?
Yards of tinsel smother a gaudy, orange papier-mâché fish. A strange tree ornament but treasured gift from another small child.
The Christmas fairy needs a new dress. Her wings are bent and her feet were chewed off long ago. Gnawed by a mischievous puppy. A tiny ball of animated fluff that grew. Grew and grew, every six months taking over another section of our home until he dominated the entire place. He too is gone.
Just two of us now. Like so many of today’s families, we are geographically oceans apart. I no longer decorate a tree but I like to select a few treasures to brighten the living room and to string coloured lights along the front of the house.
When I was small the kitchen was the hub of our home and the sitting room remained a hallowed place saved for special occasions. We children would tip-toe in, caught in the stillness of an unused room where the blinds remained at half mast.
Each year, a week or so before Christmas, we went hunting a Christmas tree. Armed with an axe and a saw, we walked with father across the farm to where a group of pine trees grew at the top of a hill. We circled them many times and our necks became stiff as we gazed upward in an effort to select the very best branch.
When we finally made our choice the branch was cut and dragged home to be trimmed into shape then erected, straight and tall, in a red bucket on the sitting room carpet. The decorations were pulled from storage and clambering onto a chair, my brother and I helped loop strings of tinsel and tie shiny balls and stars amid the fragrant pine needles. A star was placed at the very top and we all stood back to admire our handy work.
Beautiful as they were, none of these trees ever had quite the impact of the first Christmas tree I remember in the sitting room. I must have been very small, two and a half perhaps. Father shut himself in the sitting room with the tree he had chosen and mother had done her best to keep me occupied as I waited impatiently for the door to open again.
Finally I was allowed to look. The tree was large, reaching almost to the ceiling and father had wired dozens of birthday cake candles amidst the greenery and lit then all. The little flames, each a glowing yellow and orange halo that radiated light and love, left me speechless with delight.
My father stood to the side of the tree. His hair was thick and wavy then, his shirt sleeves rolled, and a sleeveless V necked pull-over topped his usual baggy-kneed trousers. He was smiling, enjoying my pleasure. As was mother who stood beside me, her hand ready to hold me back if I walked too close to the tree and the burning candles.
May your memories of this Christmas be happy ones. Let us spread the joy of peace and goodwill wherever and whenever we can, especially to those who are alone or in need. A single smile can warm two hearts. Passed on, two more makes four. And four becomes eight. Hey! We could light up the world.
All it takes is you and me to start off with a smile and the words ‘MERRY CHRISTMAS’
